Overview

The story is about a woman, the narrator, who discovered that her husband was gay after 13 years of marriage. She had a child with him, but the child was taken from her by the child protection services. She narrates her story, resenting the idea of love yet she still clings to the idea of a ‘happy ending’.

I’m a 40 year old self-established successful psychiatrist at McLean Hospital. I’m also the senior psychiatrist, need I add that? I’m black. Yes, you heard it, too black to be black. Sometimes I wonder how a 40 year old black psychiatrist like me went on to become the senior most psychiatrist, hear this, from not just any hospital but Harvard’s McLean Hospital. Doesn’t that make me a liar already? Sometimes I, myself, wonder how the hell I landed this job!  I’m single, of course, for you never get here by being married to the so called love of your life and childhood lover or by having 3 wonderful kids- One first born, Looks of Cardi B, smart yet authoritative daughter, oh, or the cute second born son, smart kid, full of wits and his father’s guts or the not so smart last born who, I don’t have to mention, hates school. No, I think I really have to tell you this- you just don’t get to be who I am, where I am if you are the idiot who gets blinded with love. Sorry, that was harsh. I have tempers too- I’m not perfect.   Oh! And I’m a beautiful woman.

Now that you know about me, you don’t know me though, we can start from the beginning, where my story starts. My story, however doesn’t start with the long, long time ago opening phrase.  My story starts with the name, Mutuma. Yes, Mutuma. Mutuma- where all you are about to hear…began.

I met Mutuma at Matbronze Café in Nairobi. It was a cool Friday evening, the sky was gay. I had left work at Agha Khan earlier to be alone, somewhere serene, away from the rowdiness of the world.  I still remember Mutuma in his fitting Yellow Dashiki African Native pants, oh the Dashiki pants. I liked him immediately. I was dressed in a beautiful Ankara blazer coat and some tight fitting jeans busy sipping my cappuccino when he walked in. He was dressed to kill, literally. I liked his dapper beard and his sense of class- it was innate and embedded in his aura. He seemed flawless.

He smiled and I found myself smiling back. I smiled, partly because he had a bewitching smile which was irresistible, or because he was just what any girl would wish for and according to girl code, if a cute man smiles at you, girl…always smile back. Chance knocks once. He came over, walking like he deserved it, and I fell in love with his confidence. “Hi, I’m Mutuma, and you must be…Nikita!” Really? You must be Nikita? I had hoped for something like, a simple “and you are?” But no, there were no fairy tales for me. He took a seat, and began explaining how he got to know my name. I wasn’t listening. I gazed lasciviously as he bit his lips.

So someone as beautiful as he was knew me, I felt lucky. Love at first sight I’d say, some sort of destiny bringing our halves together rekindling my oxytocin levels. As we struck up a convo, he mentioned. Fahari. I knew Fahari. In fact Fahari was my best friend. She worked at Mbagathi Hospital and we had been friends since med school. He said something about being Rob’s college buddy and I was left to solve the puzzle by fitting the little pieces together. I had attended Fahari and Rob’s wedding the previous week in Machakos and had drove to my apartment in Nairobi after the newlyweds flew to Diani for their honeymoon. He was the photographer from Tobin Jones Photography. Rob had mentioned something about hiring his former mate as the cameraman. I never figured it would be some ‘’every girl’s wish”-Mutuma type of a man.   

“Mind if I show you my magic trick? Give me your number and I’ll make mine appear.” At last he asked with the bewitching smile backing up his beautiful radiance. He stretched his arms to hand me his phone, and I could see an eagle’s wing tattoo on his chest. I dialed my number hastily in case he changed his mind and each time I had typos. Mrs. Mutuma, no, not so soon. So I opted for Nikita. Now, I’m telling you about our first day because it’s the only memorable moment I have of him. It is the only day he wasn’t the clone he always was. Now I have ruined the fun. You also thought he was perfect- I don’t blame you. He wasn’t perfect. He was human- imperfectly perfect. And so we joked, laughed, ordered more cappuccino, took more, went to the bathroom, told stories, laughed again, held each other’s arms (was awkward, but I liked it), and before that night ended, I knew I had found my soulmate.

I am single. Was married once. Married to Mutuma. Shared the happiest 13 years of my life with him. To say, the happiest years of my life includes the years we fought, the years he could leave the house and come back after six months so apologetic and full of remorse. The years I lived with Mutuma not knowing on what ground he stood. (He never laid his hands on me though, at least he wasn’t so violent a man). The years he spent saying no to having kids. I think we ladies love to see our men’s cuteness and sharp brains in our kids but Mutuma denied me that. And despite all, I still believed in a successful marriage. I still believed we could make through all that. Until death parts us, right? Am I bitter? No, I’m not.

I was pursuing my master’s degree at Agha Khan when Mutuma left for Canada for an art festival in Ontario. It was an impromptu trip which he said was unavoidable. We called, texted, video called during the first few months in Canada. He told me all about the weather in Ontario, the bad African dishes they served in some Kenyan restaurants. I really felt his presence even in his absence, until months later when all that stopped. I called, I texted, I tried to skype but my Mutuma had gone MIA. I missed him, lots. Months later, he sent me an email using a certain Zefa’s Gmail account. It said something about discovering himself and accepting who he really was. I was taking my finals and so never gave the words so much thought. We will talk once you get back, I replied foolishly.

Months to my graduation, he flew back and he brought Zefa Kize with him. So this was the Zefa who was generous enough to have my husband use his Gmail account. He was sweet. Always lustrous and full of energy. He was from Rwanda, he had mentioned, and had met Mutuma during the Art Festival in Kigali and later in Ontario. That was great I said and added something about fate bringing the two intelligent minds together. We lived with Zefa the few months prior to my graduation date and our house was always vibrant, alive and full of laughter. Thinking about it, Zefa was like a missing piece in our lives- we became family. He was a friend, of course, and Mutuma was my husband.

10th of November, 2015, I left to make my gown booking. The events that followed that day weren’t as important as what unfolded in the evening when I arrived. Mutuma was in bed with Zefa! I always heard people froze in time, or they dropped stuff and passed out but no. I stood there and watched as my husband cheated on me with a fellow man. I cried, for the first time in years. I had been married to a gay man for 13 good years. You should have seen the signs, you may say, but how do you even start questioning your man’s sexuality? I picked my handbag, my wallet and my passport and left for Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. That’s how I came to America- a moody, depressed, nauseated black woman. And 2-weeks pregnant in case I forgot to mention. 

My child was taken from me by the child-protective service which was a blessing in disguise. How could I raise a daughter whose father was gay? How could I raise her, being a constant reminder of my blindness? You may wonder why I’m telling you all this- my daughter, whose named Tiara by her foster parents paid me a visit today, but as a patient. As I listened to her reminiscing about life, all I could think about is how I could be there for her, a strong mother-figure to look up to, to raise her to be like me. But no, all I said is, “Find the positives in the negatives.”

That’s why I joined this self-help group. Because I’ve been listening to The Token’s “The lion sleeps tonight- WE-DE-DE-DE…DE-DE-DE-DE-DE, DE-WE-UM-UM-A-WAY”, and all I can think about is, Mutuma and our little Tiara- our perfect family.

I need help!

WRITER: MARCOS